


fleurs captives

by kashxy



Category: Iron Man 1 - Fandom, Marvel Cinematic Universe, Spider-Man (Tom Holland Movies)
Genre: AU, Angst, Blood and Gore, Child Abuse, Childhood Sexual Abuse, Death, F/M, Gore, Harley Keener is Tony Stark's Biological Child, Kidnapping, M/M, Non-Canon Conforming, Peter Parker Angst, Psychological Manipulation, Sexual Abuse, Stockholm Syndrome, Tony Stark Acting as Peter Parker's Parental Figure, alternative universe, harley keener angst, no powers au
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-09-15
Updated: 2019-09-15
Packaged: 2020-10-18 15:36:41
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,148
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20641538
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kashxy/pseuds/kashxy
Summary: it’s hard to pick up a newspaper these days that doesn’t contain a missing person’s column.where are all these people going to?





	fleurs captives

_three years prior_

You’d think that after the never ending spew of bad news, missing person after missing person, Peter would have learnt to stay inside after his curfew. 

Reports that the streets of Queens were crawling with pedophiles and serial killers lurking at every corner would be enough to put even the most rebellious of teenagers at bay past dark - especially now that the nights were colder, that it was getting increasingly more difficult to decipher the true personalities between people you’d known your whole life and strangers you’d never see again. 

Despite the warnings, he still found himself out past nine every night, biking down the middle of the road without a phone like he was invincible, like nothing could touch him. The city was alive and well, and Peter wasn’t about to stop after the first murder hoax spread around school like wildfire. 

Looking back on it now, it really was quite stupid for him to be out after dark, running through the streets of a city plunged into crime and darkness without a phone or any means of contacting his friends. He hadn’t even known where he was going, just that his aunt had pissed him off and he’d been biking blindly with tears blurring his vision. 

The streets were empty, the population Peter had grown up with hidden away under suffocating duvets and pillow cases of anxiety. Everybody was smart, paid attention to the news, to the warnings Peter so obnoxiously overlooked. He really should have been paying attention to the warning signs.

He really should’ve. 

It had happened so fast he hadn’t even had the chance to scream. A van had pulled up near the side of the road, so fast and reckless it had nearly careened straight into him, screeching to a stop right as the wheel of his bike had caught on a bump near the side of the road, flinging Peter over the handle bars before he could stop himself. 

The back door flung open, a figure in a black ski mask crouched on the floor like a fucking burglar, crowbar lying discarded next to him like Peter showed no chance of defending himself. 

In the crisp, cool blanket of the night, the stench of chloroform had swirled itself into Peter’s head before the cloth had even touched his skin, pressing around his nose and mouth until he couldn’t breathe even if he wanted to. 

A hand pressing against his lower face, the other tight and bruising against his torso, the figure dragged him towards the van, manhandling him inside of it like he was some sort of toy. 

Nobody came to help. On the extreme off chance that anybody saw, nobody would have been brave enough to intervene. Peter didn’t blame them. Really, he didn’t. 

The more he tried to squirm or scream, the quicker his head spun under the pressure of the hand against his mouth, and the overwhelming sickly bile that rose in his throat before he could blink. It dribbled between his lips, spilling down his chin under the cloth, which didn’t seem to be moving despite his weak screaming. 

As the doors shut behind him, the man gently stroking his face as his head swirls, Peter manages to choke out a cry, one last word for help before his eyes slip shut and his body stops fighting. 

-

When Peter wakes again, it’s on a cold, concrete floor that feels nothing like his own, comforting bed. When he remembers to start breathing again, he moves cautiously, unprepared to aggravate any existing wounds or create any new ones, and finds himself bound to the floor underneath his shivering body. 

His arms are stretched underneath his torso and bound between his open legs, caged so tightly to the floor he’s not sure he’d be able to move even the tiniest bit. His legs stick out to the side of his body, awkward and gangly and irrevocably bare. 

Despite there being nothing holding his head to the floor, he can’t seem to find the energy inside of himself to move it even an inch off the ground. Instead, he turns his gaze slightly upwards, glancing at the thick, chipped stairs rising up ahead of him. There’s a sliver of light slicing through the dark of the cold room, illuminating next to nothing that’s of interest to Peter in his paralysed state.

“What’s your name?”

Peter jumps violently, pulling at the ropes binding his wrists to the floor. His eyes flick rapidly, up and down and up and down until he’s so dizzy he feels like he might be sick. 

When he finally gets his eyes to focus, he can make out a teenage girl sitting on her feet, just slightly off to his right, a small bowl next to her. Her head’s almost bald, small patches of dark, fluffy hair tufting up in places. When his eyes settle, he can make out her frame, too skinny, too little, for a face that turns out to be so mature. 

“What?” 

“What’s your name?” She repeats, easy and slick like she’d been expecting his slurred confusion. He takes a moment to shift his head on the floor, resting it in a way that doesn’t strain his eyes when he looks at her. 

“Peter.”

“Peter what?” She presses, shuffling on her knees slightly like she’s itching to do something. 

He takes a second to breathe, a wave of nausea hitting him as his toe cramps up. His whole body feels like it’s been hit by a reversing dump truck, and thrown into a garbage disposal thrice over. 

“Peter Parker. Where am I?” 

Why he’s telling her his full name, he has no idea. When she gets up from her knees and walks over to him slowly, he flinches from her presence, the energy rolling off her chaotically. 

She sits by his head, stroking his hair gently with dirty, small fingers. They thread through the curls, twisting and untangling them like his mother used to when he was young. The thought spikes memories of his aunt, and tears prick at his eyes before he can swallow the lump down. 

“I don’t know,” She replies, truthful and shaky. “We’re in the basement, though.” 

A chill runs down his spine before he can decipher whether it’s really _that_ _cold_ or he’s just stripped almost naked and suffering from hypothermia. Not that it matters, because he’s freezing anyway, and he can’t imagine the point of kidnapping someone only for them to die without any real reason. 

The girl’s wearing a long, dirty dress that billows around her thighs and strokes against the nape of Peter’s neck as she shuffles closer to him. She takes a deep breath and lets it out in one big huff, prompting Peter to do the same. 

“New arrivals have to wait down here for a while.” Her tone changes, goes softer and quieter, like velvet running over his limbs. “You’ll stay here till your time’s up. It’s my job to make sure you don’t die before then.” 

And if Peter hadn’t been crying before, he certainly was now. 

The girl doesn’t react to his tears, only resumes her soft stroking atop his head until his sobs stifle back to hiccups. He’s not ready to die. He’s really not fucking ready to die and- 

“How old are you?” She says after a long, stretched out silence, whispering like his age is a secret only they should know about. 

“Fifteen.” 

The girls sighs, a small ‘_oh_’ sound that escapes her like all the breath had been expelled from her lungs. Peter keeps his head to the floor, struggling to even out his breath in time with hers. 

Peter doesn’t ask her how old she is. He stays deathly silent until a loud, gruff shout resounds above him and he jerks back so violently the girl shouts a little in surprise. 

“Who is it?” He asks quickly, chest rising and falling rapidly. He’d never been good at dealing with panic attacks alone, and he certainly didn’t want to be having one lying on the floor of a basement, tied and bound with a girl who looks half dead above him. 

“He makes us call him Papa,” She whispers back, fingers tightening in his hair. “He’s really sick. I think he lost his mind a long time ago, and everything else up there is just pure fantasy.” 

Peter blinks back tears, rolling his cheek away from the floor for a minute. He’d been lying on the right side since he’d woken up, but he can’t risk facing away from the door, just in case. 

“That,” She points out as another scream echoes down the stairs, shrill and terrified. “Is Betty.” 

She doesn’t say anything else, so Peter doesn’t carry on the conversation. 

As the minutes pass, the house seems to come more and more alive. It makes him wonder what time it is, what day it is, how long he’d been unconscious for. The little light they have streaming underneath the door proves to be absolutely useless in the bare room. 

“What’s your name?” He asks, trying to filter out the small, irregular noises he can hear from upstairs. 

“Michelle Jones.” She answers, quick and nervous. “Have you seen me?” 

She shuffles in front of him, her head right down near the floor so he can see her properly. She’s dirty and bruised and so skinny he can see her cheekbones jutting out, but other than that...

“I think so.” He says after a minute, her face familiar yet strangely disfigured and morphed. 

“So they’re still looking?” 

That was it. From the missing persons column in the newspaper, the one he’d read so many times but had never paid any attention too unless it was required. Something he’d never really cared about, never really bothered to actually understand.

Something he’d sworn would have never happened fo him. 

“How many of you are there?” 

“Just the four of us.” Michelle answers, her upper thighs close to Peter’s face as she resumes her place close to his body and gently begins to stroke his hair again. “Me, Betty, Cassie, and you. You’re the fourth one.” 

“Betty says there were more.” She continues. “I don’t really remember. He never wants us to remember. All I know is that you’re the first boy.” 

Peter can’t reply, because the thick door at the top of the stairs slides open, the bolt connecting with the doorway with a loud ‘bang’ that forces involuntarily flinched out of both of them. He watches with a rising panic as Michelle scurries back to her original spot, her brown eyes wide and fearful. 

He tugs experimentally at the rope, harder than before. Just before a man shows himself at the doorway, he pulls at the ropes harshly and falls into place, like he’d done every other time. Blood gently drips down his palm as he watches the man walk slowly down the stairs, a hand on the bumpy wall the whole way down. 

A small girl, brown haired and skinny and no older than nine, follows closely behind him, her eyes trained on Michelle the whole time. 

“He’s awake.” The man comments, smirking down the stairs at Peter’s limp body; his eyes flash when the teenager winces, and he descends even further. 

By the time the man reaches the floor and crouches down near Peter’s face, he’s trembling like a leaf, eyes catching the small girls’ every now and then. She seams to be flicking between him and Michelle, her eyes as wide as saucers as he arches back from the outstretched hand. 

“Don’t you fucking touch me.” He spits, but his voice wavers and can barely be heard through his gritted teeth. 

It seems he wasn’t as quiet as he thought he was, for the man slaps him harshly on the cheek, a hand slipping around his chin to turn his head back towards him. 

“Don’t swear.” 

They seem to have a silent conversation, Peter’s eyes wide and terrified, while the man’s narrow in a calculating glare. The girl behind him shuffles slightly closer to Michelle quietly, until her fingertips can brush the other girl’s hair. 

“Papa, why a boy?” 

“Because, petal,” He answers without taking his eyes off of Peter. “You need someone young and strong to protect you. Someone to hold this family together when I’m stuck in my head.”

“I won’t help you.” Peter seethes, spitting in the face of a man he’s grown to fear so much in only two minutes. “I want to go home.” 

The man backhands him so harshly across the face he feels tears spring to his eyes, hot and shameful and spilling down his cheeks before he can stop them. 

“Don’t worry, son. You’ll soon learn what happens when you try and run.” 

His tone is light, but the words cut through Peter like a knife laced in venom, deadly and terrifying with the unsettling disguise of something so soft. 

“Don’t call me that,” He manages to choke out through chattering teeth, the cold and fear seeping through his body like a cloak. “I’m not your son.” 

“No,” The man agrees. He takes a step towards the smallest girl, gently stroking her choppy brown hair as she shivers. “But you are _their_ brother.” 

Peter pulls at his restraints again, the rope cutting his circulation off as he struggles. He can’t move his fingers anymore, and every second they spend in his stupid basement is a second closer to his inevetible torture, but he’s so tightly compact and trapped that he just _can’t move_. 

“Would you like to name him?” 

The little girl, who can’t be older than ten and who wears a necklace of thin red string tight around her neck, nods shakily, her fingers tight around a small bottle of medication.

“His name is Peter,” Michelle whispers, sending the weakest of glares at their captor. “Just let him keep his name, Cas. He’s gonna lose everything else.” 

The man grits his teeth, looking down at her like she’s a piece of shit he’s stood on in the park, but the little girl interrupts him in a small, mousy voice. 

“I like the name Peter.” 

The man’s glare doesn’t stray from Michelle’s face as he gently pushes the young girl behind him. She makes a small squeak of resistance, quickly hushed by his gesture to stand by the stairs. 

They’re so fucking _obedient_, like some dogs he’s trained just for his own pleasure. It’s sick, and Peter feels his stomach churn and an uncanny wave of protectiveness when their captor steps towards Michelle and slaps her across the face. 

He makes a noise, something crossed between a moan and a shout because his mouth won’t open enough for him to scream. They pay him no attention, but the little girl sidles closer to him, her hand quickly reaching for his index finger. She closes her fingers around his, tighter than would be comfortable, but Peter’s willing to let her break all of his fingers like that if it calms her down. 

“Did I ask you to talk to him?” 

“No, Papa, I-” Michelle stutters out, still on her knees in front of him. 

“Go to your room.” 

Even from here, with one eye swollen shut against the floor, Peter can see the panic that spreads through her body even before she starts pleading. Her arms are shaking as he tightens a fist at his side, spitting down at her through a clenched jaw. 

“You do not argue!” He shouts, so loud that Peter jolts back violently and unconsciously pulls his wrists tighter against the rope. “Go to your room. Now.” 

Michelle hurries to her feet, tripping over her own limbs as she sends an apologetic smile over to Peter and rushes clumsily up the stairs. She’s gone in a split second, the sound of crying following her as she leaves.

It’s selfish, the way he’s glad the young girl is here, because if she wasn’t, he’d be left alone and vulnerable with this clearly deranged man able to do anything he pleased to his body. 

“Cassie,” He says without taking his eyes off of Peter’s terrified face. “Take him to Betty’s room. He’s to remain bound until I say so.” 

The young girl nods quickly, crouching behind Peter to untie his hands from the floor. He’d never been so happy to be wearing boxers than he was in that minute. 

When he gets to his feet, too drugged to even think coherently, the man laughs and gently pushes his shoulder, watching him trip and slam back against the floor. Cassie’s small hands are on his body straight away, pulling him up with an urgency that has him swaying to stand upright. 

“I hope you’re tougher than you look when you’re sober.” The man comments, eyes still boring into Peter’s. “I suggest you learn how to look after my girls, or you’ll meet the rest of my disobedient children.” 

Peter doesn’t even have the time to say anything back, because tears are springing in his eyes and he’s being pushed up the stairs, weak and unsteady like a rag doll. 

He doesn’t open his eyes as they move, because the lights bore through his eyelids like a laser beam straight into his pupils. Besides, his eyelashes are so heavy he might never be able to open them again, and he’d much rather sleep forever than be awake to live in this nightmare he’d never wake up from. 

When they get to a small room the girl, Cassie, gently pushes his drugged body into a small, soft chair, tying his wrists to the armrests with a soft apology. 

“This is Betty’s room,” She whispers, like it’s some sacred thing to be speaking of a room like that. “She’s making dinner.” 

Peter nods, numb and unmoving as Cassie studies his face. She’s so young, but the left side of her jaw is swollen, and one of her fingers is bent awkwardly in a clumsy, homemade cast. 

“Don’t try and run.” She blurts out, eyes flicking to the door quickly. 

“I can get you out.” He says, head spinning as exhaustion claws at his body and drags him under. His head lolls to the side of the chair, a small amount of spit leaking down his chin as he settles into the soft material. 

“I hope so, Peter.” Cassie answers, and Peter can already hear her moving away. She sounds different, older, more mature than Peter would have ever thought possible for someone her age. 

Peter lets his head fall back over the arm rest, his eyelids heavy and tired even as his body fights to stay awake and defend himself. The exhaustion knocks him unconscious before he can ask Cassie to help, and the young girl steps towards the door with a small sigh. 

“I really do.” 


End file.
